


Sillage

by starkercrossedlovers



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkercrossedlovers/pseuds/starkercrossedlovers
Summary: Sillage-- The scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in the water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 60





	Sillage

Up here the air is marginally thinner, cleaner, lighter, than it is down amongst the swell of humanity. Up here the cacophony of everyday chaos fades to little more than background noise. Up here, Tony can pretend everything is fine, that he’s not aching for something unnameable, though it has a name.

_The love that dare not speak its name_

Tony scoffs at his own melodramatic musings; it—no _he_ —has a name, and here, in this solitude he creates for himself, he says it, too softly to hear, the sound snatched away by the wind even as its leaving his lips.

He finishes his drink and contemplates another—but he promised, promised he’d do better, _be_ better. So he sets the cut crystal down on the concrete ledge and ponders knocking it over the edge—it wouldn’t be hard, a flick of his finger really—but then, he might kill someone and then where would he be?

Guilty, ashamed, exhausted.

All things he already is.

So he picks up the glass and carries it inside, sets it on the bar and pads silently through the tower, feet carrying him blindly to where he wants to be—shouldn’t be—for another lonely night in a row.

The air in the room isn’t stale exactly—still, and tense, and the scent that lingers makes his chest work, eyes falling shut at the familiarity of it. He can almost feel him here, in the lingering scent and the press of air against his skin like a ghostly exhale—but when he opens his eyes there’s no one but him here.

Tony’s like a lake, surface disturbed by stones, each one of them some way that Peter had affected his life. He’s gone now, but the ripples remain, spreading out and growing until he’s fundamentally altered. The trail his life leaves behind in the water shimmers like the reflection of a sunset—beautiful and achingly sad.

Too many nights he chases ghosts around the Tower; in the room that used to be _his_ , in the book left on the coffee table he can’t bring himself to move, in the yearning he feels in his gut at a laugh that’s familiar but not quite the same—not quite _his_.

He’s weak tonight, and when he lays down on the bed and buries his face in the pillow, he doesn’t fight the tears. He’s too tired and lonely, so he chases the whiskey with sorrow and cries silently until he sleeps and dreams of ashes and apologies.

* * *

The world is quieter with half the population gone, or it should be, but sometimes it feels as though the remaining bits of humanity scream all the louder to drown out the silence of those missing.

He’d never heard silence so loud till he’d watched his friends, allies, loved ones turn to ash with nothing more than a whisper of the breeze.

_Please Mr. Stark, I don’t wanna go_

Eyes clenched tightly closed, Tony shakes his head at the echoes that haunt him, taunting him with everything he’s lost, everything he failed to protect.

That’s what he is now; a failure.

Maybe always was.

Howard had sure seemed certain that he’d never amount to anything.

“Look dad, failed again,” he mutters, “aren’t you _proud_?”

He tosses back the scant remaining whiskey in his glass and shudders as it burns its way down.

They have a plan, supposedly, to fix everything. He’s never seen Steve so hopeless before, never known Natasha to be scared, and he figures he probably should be too—hopeless, scared, filled with dread—but mostly, mostly he’s numb.

Which, maybe isn’t a bad thing, because then he won’t hope—there’s no room left inside him for hope, just a cold distant idea that maybe soon this will all be over and he can finally rest, close his eyes and not see his failures crumbling to ashes in front of him.

Wouldn’t _that_ be nice

* * *

He’s soaked to the bone in blood and gore and weariness, but they’ve done it. The Mad Titan lays dead at Nebula’s feet, head a short distance away, and Tony, he can’t quite manage to feel anything but quiet relief.

“Mr. Stark?”

Oh good, now he’s hallucinating.

He turns with a sigh and finds Bucky, T’Challa, Quill, Sam, and, and—

“Peter?”

He stares, wide eyed at the kid, disbelief and hope kicking around his heart as his stomach lurches and then he’s stumbling back, arms full with a warm body.

A hitching noise works out of his throat and his fingers curl through sandy gold locks as his eyes fall shut and a shocked inhale brings a familiar scent filtering in.

It’s not a memory or a ghost or a sensation in the air in his arms, it’s Peter.

He sobs and pulls him closer, inhaling deeper, wincing as slim fingers curl too tightly into his spine, but oh god, it’s real, and he can’t be bothered to care about a thing like pain.

_I’m sorry Peter, I’m so so sorry_

He gasps it out as he cries, holds him tighter, panic and ecstasy warring inside him. His left arm feels numb and his heart beats too fast, but he can’t let go, can’t risk losing him again.

Peter holds him tighter; _I’m here Mr. Stark, I’m here,_ he whispers, voice hoarse with his own tears.

_I’m here_

* * *

Cold sweat slicks his skin as he bolts out of bed, unease and fear sick and cold in his veins. He grabs his left arm unconsciously, staggers down the hall and pushes the door open, inhaling the fresh scent of linens and citrus and _Peter._

_Mr. Stark?_

He sits up in bed, hair tousled with sleep still lining his face, eyes rapidly clearing as he stares at Tony.

It’s a moment of silence and then Peter slides over in bed, pulls back the covers and lays down, waiting.

He shouldn’t.

Will.

Does.

Peter pulls the covers up over them and gives it a moment before whispering _what happened?_

Tony shudders as the memory of his dream— _nightmare_ —replays like a slideshow behind his eyes.

_You died…again_

There’s a long moment of silence and then a hand splays against his shoulder.

_I’m right here_

He nods, it doesn’t mean much to his traumatized brain though, the nightmares keep coming, even as he sees Peter everyday, knows he’s alive. It’s a failure of biology, serotonin and neurons; he wonders if he took a scan of his brain if it would show the parts of him that are broken.

 _Go to sleep_ Peter urges _I’m right here._

He shivers as the sweat on his skin chills and then Peter presses up against him from behind, knees tucking against his as one of his arms slides under Tony’s to band across his chest and then Tony’s grabbing onto him, breathing unsteadily as tears burn in his eyes.

There’s a long moment of silence and then Peter starts speaking, quietly, breath soft against his skin.

“So I’ve been thinking about how to increase the tensile strength of the webs while maintaining their flexibility. I have a few ideas—”

And then he’s off, talking science in Tony’s ear until the tension bleeds out of his body and the soft murmur of his voice drops to a low hum and he’s asleep before he realizes it, the sun sliding through the blinds the first thing he sees when he wakes the next morning.

Peter is already gone from bed but there’s a note on the table next to him— _stay as long as you need, training with Bucky. Be back soon._

It shouldn’t comfort him as much as it does, shouldn’t make his chest tight with affection, but then he also shouldn’t have crawled into bed with his 17 year old mentee and co-Avenger, but Tony Stark has never been one known for good decisions.

He stumbles from Peter’s bed and blinks at the light in the hallway, stilling when Sam turns the corner, eyes flicking between him and Peter’s door, lips pursing and turning down at Tony’s undress. They stare at each other for a minute before Sam shakes his head and strides past him, silent judgement radiating from him in waves.

He must have learned that trick from Steve, Tony muses, stomach clenching at the thought of the other man. After everything Tony thought he would stay, but given the chance, he returned to the 40’s to make a life with Peggy.

That Bucky had stayed without him surprised everyone, but then, as he’d explained, he’s had decades to get used to this world, and he feels like he owes it to the world to try and undo some of the damage he’d done as the Winter Soldier—brainwashing or no, he carries as much guilt over it as Steve did over not being able to stop his fall from the train.

Guilt, they all carry it now—an extra load on already burdened shoulders.

He shoves it aside for the moment and heads back to his room to shower and dress. Hopefully Sam will keep his mouth shut about this—he’s less prone to confronting Tony than Steve was, and for that he’s deeply, painfully, grateful.

* * *

Each time he tells himself he won’t go. He’ll lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling for hours, trying to go back to sleep, and then curse himself as he tosses aside the covers and makes his way to Peter’s room.

He hates how weak he is, how dependent and lovelorn, but he needs Peter, more than he should, more than he has any right to, and he knows it’s wrong, but Peter has yet to turn him away—and it’s a weak defense, but it’s the only one he’s got.

Tonight though, tonight he’s stayed awake until the numbers on the holographic display beside his bed reads 2:42 AM and he’s got a stack of SI paperwork that Pepper’s needed his attention on for weeks, so it’s no loss really, in the grand scheme of things.

If he gets two hours a night he’s lucky, and he knows he can’t keep on this way, but for now, he’s fine.

That’s what he says when anyone asks— _I’m fine_ —like it isn’t the biggest lie he’s ever told. He got used to saying it at a young age—hiding bruises from teachers _(I’m fine Mrs. Woods, really)_ and schooling himself not to flinch when Howard spoke to loudly or moved quickly in public.

He’s been _fine_ for most of his life.

And what an utterly inadequate word for what he is. His panic attacks are worse than ever, coupled with insomnia and shakes, he’s most definitely **not** _fine_. If anyone else on the team has noticed, they’ve steadfastly remained quiet about it—though he’s noticed Nat eyeing him on more than one occasion so maybe he’s not fooling _all_ of them.

A knock at his door draws his gaze up and he smiles softly to see Peter there, toes curling under as he tugs at the collar of his oversized sweatshirt—one of Tony’s he’d stolen after a mission and never given back. He looks hesitant and pale, and immediately concern swells within Tony.

“Pete? What’s wrong?” he asks, already half way out of the bed before Peter has a chance to speak. He’s breathing unevenly, pale and sweaty and Tony frowns, reaches out and lays a hand on his forehead, lips pressing tightly together when he feels the kid burning up.

“Don’t feel so good,” Peter admits, swaying into Tony’s touch, eyes hooded and circled with blueish marks. Tony doesn’t hesitate, just wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders and another under his knees to lift and carry him.

Peter tries to protest, but it’s weak and his head falls onto Tony’s shoulder with little resistance. “Fri? Scan please,” Tony murmurs, tucking the sheets up around his chest with gentle hands. “Hang tight kid, I’ll be right back,” he assures Peter before slipping out to the kitchen for a cup of water and a mug of chamomile tea.

By the time he’s back Peter is mostly asleep, curled into a ball in Tony’s sheets, shivering and whimpering softly.

“Boss, Mr. Parker has the flu. He’s currently registering a temperature of 102.3. Recommended course of action—fluids and painkillers every two hours to accommodate Mr. Parker’s high metabolism. Also recommended is intravenous nutrition in addition to soft bland foods such as; bananas, rice, applesauce, toast. These should help accommodate the fluid loss and stomach ache Mr. Parker is currently suffering.”

Tony just stares at Peter for a moment before nodding, “Have medical send up what’s needed and show me what to do, I’ll take care of him.”

There’s a moment of silence before Friday speaks again, “Yes boss. Nurse Diaz is on his way. ETA 15 minutes.”

Tony nods and sinks into the chair by his bed, watching as Peter sleeps uneasily. A soft command to Friday has the lights dimming and he sinks deeper into the chair, weary and heartsore, but unable to sleep.

Nurse Diaz is an efficient man in his 30’s who spares only a cursory glance around the room—Tony Stark’s inner sanctum—before moving to assess Peter. He’s quiet as he works, scribbling notes on a chart that Tony’s surprised to see isn’t one of his tech, but an honest to god piece of paper.

After twenty minutes of quiet, Diaz turns to him, arms crossing over his broad chest as he studies Tony. He waves a hand and Tony follows him across the room, panic swelling within him—is Peter worse than FRIDAY had indicated? Images of Peter crumbling to ash flash before his eyes and the taste of death is heavy on his tongue.

“Mr. Parker has the flu. I’d say with his advanced healing he shouldn’t be having this much of an issue with it, but there’s a particularly nasty strain out this year that’s making life very difficult for folks who _don’t_ have super powers, so I’m not surprised he’s down for the count. It’ll probably take five to seven days for him to get through this, and as long as you keep the fluids up and get food into him, he’ll be fine. I’ll be back in thirty minutes with more saline and nutrition drips for you, and show you how to do the IV lines.”

Diaz looks at him for a long moment and his professional demeanor fades into something softer. His hand lands on Tony’s shoulder and his eyes are kind as he says, “He’s gonna be fine Mr. Stark. We all care about him, we wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

Tony nods, grateful for the reassurance, but numb still, because _he_ wasn’t supposed to let anything happen to the kid, and he’d ended up dead. So promises like the one Diaz made carried less weight than it would have once upon a time.

Diaz leaves and Tony takes up his sentinel position by the bed, paperwork for Pepper in his lap as he tries to focus on something other than his panic and fear and gut wrenching worry. By the time Diaz returns to show him how to change IV bags, he’s exhausted, tired down to the bone so that he’s sore with it, eyes heavy and bruised.

Diaz pauses on his way out and shakes his head, “Just my professional opinion, but if you’re going to be around Mr. Parker you’ll need rest so you don’t get sick too. If you need something to help—”

“No.”

His voice is harsh, and he immediately regrets the way it came out when Diaz flinches.

“No, thank you Diaz. I’ve uh, had a problem with medications in the past and I’d prefer to just sleep as much as I can without aid.”

Diaz nods slowly and a ghostly smile crosses his handsome face, “I understand Mr. Stark. My little brother had problems too.” He pauses and then sighs, “If you’re open to more natural remedies I’d suggest melatonin, chamomile tea before bed and a blackout on technology an hour before bed. Let your system wind down naturally and it’ll come easier.”

Tony’s heard it all before but he nods along anyway, grateful that they have people as dedicated and understanding as Diaz on the team. When the nurse leaves Tony carefully organizes his remaining paperwork and has FRIDAY dim the lights till there’s barely enough light to see by.

He sinks into the chair by the bed and reviews the most urgent of the files, eyes growing heavier as the numbers on the hologram grow. Outside, dawn blooms, grey and foggy and as the sun manages to break through, Tony falls asleep.

* * *

FRIDAY alerts the team that Peter is sick and Tony’s been exposed and they’ll both be under quarantine in his quarters for the next week. It takes 18 hours before Peter is functionally coherent, and Tony finds himself threatening physical restraint if he doesn’t stop trying to convince him of his health by getting out of bed.

“Christ Pete! You practically collapsed in my arms! You’re not well and I need you to get better, you understand? I can’t,” his breath hitches as panic rises, “I can’t lose you,” he gasps, black spots appearing in his vision, left arm tingling painfully.

“Mr. Stark! Sit down, please!”

Tony doesn’t have much choice when his legs give out underneath him, and it’s lucky Peter’s not listened to him because he’s out of bed still and able to catch him before he falls and hurts himself. He’s guided into the bed, Peter’s hands firm as he tucks the sheets around him and then crawls in beside him.

Peter tasks FRIDAY with monitoring his vitals worth an order to alert medical if they grow drastically worse before he has her open the curtains so he can watch it rain. Up this high there’s nothing to obstruct the view, so it’s grey and gloomy and darkly beautiful.

He asks FRIDAY to filter the sounds of the rain into the room, the steady white noise soothing. He watches Tony for a moment, curled in on himself and breathing unsteadily, and decides screw it, he’s going to try and help.

He pulls Tony against him so his body is pressed along Peter’s and his head rests on his chest, and the older man stiffens for a moment before one hand slides across his hips and curls up around his waist, holding onto him tightly.

It’s glorious torture, being this close to the man he’s loved in one way or another for over a decade, but right now it’s not about what Peter wants, it’s about what Tony needs. He slides his fingers through thick dark curls and starts humming.

He doesn’t have the most amazing voice, but it’ll do for this. He sings softly a lullaby his mom used to sing that May had continued even as he got older. It should have been weird, to have her sing it to him as a teenager, but there were times when he was panicked or scared or hurt and all he wanted was her comforting voice and embrace to make it all better.

Eventually Tony relaxes against him, and when he glances down he’s surprised to find the older man asleep. There’s dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles on his brow that his fingers itch to soothe away. He keeps his hands to himself, limiting his selfish contact to just a hand in his hair, humming quietly.

He’s not really tired at the moment, and he doesn’t feel quite as terrible as he did earlier so he asks FRIDAY in a whisper to turn on the tv, sound so low that anyone without abilities wouldn’t hear it. He watches a few movies before his stomach rumbles and his bladder reminds him of its presence so he carefully edges out from under Tony and goes silently to the bathroom.

He’s just finished washing his hands and asking FRIDAY to have soup and sandwiches sent up when he hears a noise of distress from the other room. Hurrying out, he inhales sharply at the sight of Tony, white faced and panicked, curled against his headboard. He’s clutching his left arm, strained lines of tension in his limbs as his head whips toward Peter.

_Peter_

It’s half a sob of relief and then he’s collapsing entirely, hands fisting in his hair as he weeps and shakes.

Peter is across the room before he registers it, pulling Tony into his arms to rock him, panic of his own making his chest too tight. This time he doesn’t seem to be calming and FRIDAY tells him they should call for help so he agrees, keeps on holding onto him, and tries to fight back his own tears.

Nurse Diaz is there minutes later and takes one look at the situation before hurrying over. They get Tony to agree to take something to help him calm down, and a few minutes after it enters his bloodstream, he’s asleep again.

Before he leaves Diaz pauses and turns to look at Peter firmly. “Is it always this bad?”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, “I think it’s because I’m sick. It reminds him…” he trails off, the words of _when I died_ hanging between them.

“You can’t make him better. He has to get help and you can’t be the person to do it for him.”

It hurts a little, to hear it put so baldly, but he knows that Diaz is right. He just nods and smiles tiredly at the older man, “Thanks.”

Diaz studies him and then sighs, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

As he leaves another staff member wheels in a tray of food and leaves just as quietly. Peter eats in silence, watching the rain fall, some unnamed thing inside him growing as he inhales the scent of petrichor.

* * *

Peter waits till he’s fully recovered to approach Tony about what happened. It happens one evening while the others are out, having dinner together, leaving just the two of them alone in the tower. He finds Tony in his shop, elbows deep in a car engine, tinkering away with Black Sabbath playing in the background.

He watches him for a minute and smiles softly; sometimes his love for this man makes his chest hurt in the most beautiful way.

Tony glances up, face softening into delight and Peter quails internally, wishing he could cross the room and kiss him, firm and demanding so he knows just how he feels.

Instead, he moves to sit beside Tony on the spare stool and nods toward he engine, “Need a hand?”

“Nah I’m just killing time, monkeying around for the fun of it,” Tony tells him with a grin before turning back to continue what he was working on.

Peter hums and watches for a few minutes, gathering his courage before he murmurs, “You’ve been having panic attacks, bad ones. Rhodey told me they haven’t been this bad in years, except this time you aren’t trying to get help.”

Tony still and Peter can see him looking out of the corner of his eye before he resumes his work, every line of his body tense. “Yea? What else did Rhodey have to say?” he asks, voice dangerously calm and even and Peter’s brain screams— _warning warning warning, danger ahead!!_

But he has to keep going.

Because he loves Tony and he can’t heal him all on his own.

He’s not that powerful.

“He said the same thing Nurse Diaz did; that I can’t make you better all by myself, you have to want to be better and ask someone for help—a therapist or something.”

Tony flinches and his head turns slowly to meet his gaze, “Just how many people have you been talking about this with?” he asks evenly, displeasure writ on his handsome face.

“Just Rhodey; Diaz mentioned it when he came and helped while I was sick and you had a panic attack. Tony I wouldn’t talk about this with anyone, I swear. I just, I want you to get better, to get the help you need,” he tells him earnestly, hands itching to reach out and reassure him.

Tony’s face is blank as he turns on his stool, grease streaked on his face and forearms, impossibly handsome and seriously angry. “Better? Because I’m broken now, is that it? I’m too weak to handle all this on my own? Guess you have to have superpowers or be my father to know what’s best for me, huh?” he snarls.

Peter flinches but swallows back any sharp retort—Rhodey had told him Tony likely wouldn’t take this well. It still hurts though, that bitter ring of acrimony in Tony’s voice.

“No Tony, I’m just telling you this because I love you. I want you to be better, to be healthier, happier. Because I think if you’re honest, you know you aren’t any of those things.” He pauses and then sighs, “I’m going to move out of the tower and live with MJ, go to school and if you or the Avengers need me I’ll be here. You’re strong Tony, you, not Iron Man, and I know you can do this.”

Tony stares at him wide eyed, confused, and then goes studiously blank, “If you loved me you wouldn’t be leaving me,” he says flatly, turning away when Peter makes a soft wounded noise.

He fights tears as Tony works and swallows hard before nodding and rising to his feet, “Maybe. Or maybe I love you enough to walk away so you can find your own strength, to see yourself like I do,” he murmurs.

Tony says nothing and he feels like crying, but holds it in, takes a shuddering breath and prepares to walk away.

There’s a screeching noise behind him and then a hand clamps around his wrist, yanking him back and into the solid wall of Tony’s chest, a greasy hand grabs his chin and holds him still as firm, hungry lips press against his.

Tony tastes like whiskey and engine grease and regret and Peter finds himself leaning into the embrace, even as he knows he should pull away. Tony does it for him, stepping back with a low curse and a shake of his head as he avoids Peter’s gaze.

“Just go.”

Peter stares at him for a moment, throat thick with emotion and unshed tears before he nods and stumbles back a step.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t turn, not when he hears Tony curse, not when the door closes behind him and he hears a shout and something heavy slamming into the wall, not when he hears wrenching sobs on the other side of the glass.

Instead, he turns and walks away.

* * *

Three weeks later he’s right back where he started—roaming the halls of the tower late at night, drinking too much and sleeping less than before.

Peter is gone, but his scent lingers on Tony’s sheets, the oragami cat he’d folded and put on Tony’s desk in the lab smiling and waving cheerfully—reminders of him everywhere, even the news as Spiderman saves the day and rescues a couple from drowning after the woman tipped the boat mid proposal and dumped them into the pond in Central Park.

When he finds himself in Peter’s room night after night, drinking till he blacks out, he knows rock bottom is close, but until the day he wakes up and realizes that he’s not just chasing a ghost but becoming one, he can’t get help.

After that it’s, well, not _easy_ , but _simple_ , to find a therapist and start trying to get better.

Because Peter loves him, and he’s going to do everything he can to be worthy of that love, to be strong enough without him, to stand on his own two feet and finally set aside the decades of abuse and neglect that he’s just so tired of carrying around.

It’s not easy.

But it’s worth it.

* * *

Amber and vetiver are warm in the air when Peter walks into his apartment and he pauses, heart aching at the familiar scent. Every once in awhile he’ll catch it on the air and glance around, heart racing in the hopes that he’ll find Tony nearby, but always, it’s just an impression of someone already gone.

He tosses his backpack on the table and sorts through the mail as he walks down the hall to his room, frowning when the scent gets stronger. He pushes open his door and freezes because Tony is sitting on his bed, looking at him with soft hopeful eyes and he doesn’t quite know what to do.

Tony smiles faintly, “I wanted to see you, say thank you,” he says, and Peter shivers as the low raps of his voice runs over him. It’s been months since he’s seen the older man and he’s watched every news clip he can get his hands on, yearning for what he left behind.

He hadn’t slept right for weeks after he left; his pillows and sheets didn’t smell right and when he realized it was because they didn’t smell like Tony he had wept, aching with the loss of his best friend, mentor, love.

He’d lain awake, staring at the pillow beside him, remembering the way Tony’s head had looked on it, dark hair falling on his forehead in his sleep, face soft and flushed gently as he breathed deeply. There wasn’t even an impression left behind, just memories.

He swallows hard, “For what?”

Tony rubs his hands together and sighs, “For leaving. You were right. I needed to do it on my own and not rely on you to fix me. I have to fix me. I-I’m not fixed, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely better, because who is really, but yea, I uh, I’m doing good.”

Peter fights a smile at how nervous Tony is and steps forward until he’s right in front of him, knees barely brushing together so Tony has to look up to maintain eye contact.

His hand shakes when he pushes it through Tony’s hair, voice soft and hopeful when he asks, “Are you happy?”

Tony hums and leans into the touch, eyes hooded as he stares up at him, “More than I’ve ever been,” he answers, hands sliding behind Peter’s knees so his thumbs can stroke slowly against his thighs. “Are you?”

Peter leans down, titling Tony’s chin up further roll their lips are just a breath apart, “I am now,” he whispers, and then closes the distance.

A low noise of pleasure comes from Tony’s chest before he’s pulling on Peter’s knees and tugging him down into his lap. The kisses are slow and lazy, and even when Tony turns them and presses him into the mattress, they’re still soft.

“I missed you,” Tony breathes, mouth on Peter’s neck.

Peter tugs gently on Tony’s hair as he nuzzles his beard into his soft skin, “I missed you too.”

Tony leans up and smiles softly down at him, “I love you,” he murmurs, thumb making circles against his hip where his hand had sought out skin under Peter’s shirt.

Tears threaten and he feels like he’s drowning in warmth as he tugs Tony down to kiss him again.

“I love you too.”

* * *

Peter wakes up the next morning and smiles, hearing Tony in the kitchen, cursing as he makes breakfast.

His pillow smells like amber and vetiver and it’s not just some lingering impression of someone long gone, it’s real.

He buries his face in the fabric and inhales.

It’s real.


End file.
